


The Lady and her Steward

by juniebugg



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And rough kissing, Blood and Injury, Declarations Of Love, F/M, I solemnly swear that I am no Tolkien Expert, Meddling Kings and brothers alike, Mutual Pining, Post-War of the Ring, The Rangers of Ithilien, There will be gentle kissing, all types of kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27268909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniebugg/pseuds/juniebugg
Summary: Faramir's eyes followed the pair. He had always thought there was something enchanting about the simple way the women of Rohan chose to wear their hair down. The intrigue was effortless, as if beauty came as natural as breathing to them.Just as he was leading his men past the procession, the fairer colored maiden of the two peered up at him curiously, almost fearfully and Faramir's hands spasmed on the reins.It was Éowyn.Éowyn come to Gondor.
Relationships: Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I had the sudden urge to write this little one-shot, realizing upon its completion that it would be cruel to leave it as a one-shot. There's a story here. I know it. When I get the time and the will to write the rest, you can bet I'll post it. 
> 
> In the meantime, please note that I was first introduced to The Lord of the Rings through the amazing movie trilogy and so no matter what I read or what I know to be book canon, I cannot for the life of me picture Faramir with dark hair. It just does not compute. That being said, I describe Faramir as having fair hair in this fic. If that doesn't sit well with you, my apologies in advance. 
> 
> I don't claim to know everything about Tolkien or LoTRs lore (there's just so much to know!), but nevertheless, here is a story set in the wonderful realm of Middle-Earth. 
> 
> Please note: tags and ratings may change in the future.

The ride to Edoras from Minas Tirith had been long and wearying, but the tables heavily laden with roasts and honey cakes all but made up for it. Faramir took a foaming pint from a server's outstretched hand and then, after being pulled into a merry circle of men, raised his tankard to cheers of ‘Long Live Éomer King!’ The clank of metal on metal rang through the hall and Faramir tipped the ale into his mouth. The taste was sweet and crisp, and full-bodied hops lingered on his tongue like a whisper. From then on he spent the night drinking and dancing and laughing with both brothers in arms and strangers. The Steward of Gondor was determined to have a good time, even if he felt the White Lady of Rohan’s eyes upon him as he went. 

He did not once regret in his coming, for he had been invited and he had every right to attend Éomer’s coronation, though the thought that fair Éowyn was here within the hall and yet so out of his reach hurt like a blow to the chest. 

So more ale he drank and more dancing he partook in. He held the shoulders of men under his arms and sang drinking songs until the phantom press of her eyes from the place of honor beside her brother faded, and slowly, so too did the pain of her presence. 

He could not remember a time he had been drunker, though, in all fairness, he could not remember much at all.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the fires burned low and the throne hall was picked clean of meat, he stumbled his way into a guest room and fell upon what he believed to be an empty cot. 

“Oy!” a man shouted. “Find your own!” 

Faramir, now laughing and boneless, was pushed to the floor and there he remained until sunrise. 

* * *

As one should expect after a night of drinking, Faramir awoke with the acutest of needs. Peeling himself from the floor and trying unsuccessfully to flatten the wrinkles in his tunic, he went out to find himself a chamberpot. After relieving himself in a side room and nearly falling over a prone body passed out and snoring loudly on the floor, Faramir made to find a proper bed. His head was pounding upon his return to the throne hall and even the weak morning light through the jutting windows up upon the roof forced him to squint. The hall was empty save for tables piled with picked over platters and the last remaining dregs of ale in their abandoned tankards. Faramir made for a guest room he hoped had a spare cot. 

A voice from behind a pillar said, “You walk as if in defeat when you think no one is watching.” 

Faramir started and reached for his hip, but he was not wearing his sword or any knife for that matter. And why would he be? It was peace times and he was in the guarded halls of Éomer King. A coronation should not be sullied with the brandishing of fighting steel. 

“Did I scare you, my lord?” Éowyn asked, for it was the lovely Éowyn who stepped out to face him, the younger sister of Éomer King, shieldmaiden of Rohan who had not but six months previous rode to battle against the armies of Mordor in chainmail. She was now clad in a shimmery emerald gown, not the fine red of the night before. A circlet glittered on her brow, beneath which her pale golden hair cascaded like spun gold thread caught in the sunlight, and her eyes, those piercing grey eyes, watched him with thinly veiled amusement and a hint of the same sadness he had witnessed in her upon their meeting in the House of Healing. “I never did take your quiet countenance to be one of easy fright.” 

Faramir wet his lips and tried to appear lordly, a challenge with a wrinkled tunic and what he suspected was a pale, bloodshot complexion. “And how is a man not to be frightened by you, Wraithsbane? You are a frightening creature to behold.” 

She laughed, her face lighting up like a beacon in the shadows. “I think that is perhaps the queerest compliment I have ever received.” 

“Do you bid me take it back?”

“No, for I very much liked it. Though I doubt the use of such a descriptor as ‘frightening’ would fall well upon the ears of the other members of my sex. Perhaps with them, you should try flowery words such as ‘fair as the morning dew’ or ‘gentle as a spring breeze’. Better yet, write these words into poems. I very much think maidens like poems.”

A smile broke over his face. He had always cherished her humor for he knew it did not come easily. “I regret to inform you that I myself am a better talent at reading poems than writing them.” 

Éowyn frowned slightly but her eyes were still full of laughter. “That is a tragedy on your part.” 

“Indeed,” he nodded and drew closer, ignoring the ache in his head and the growing one in his chest. “Perhaps that is why I have had such bad luck with maidens.” 

A silence as soft and as sad as snow descended upon them. There was an unbalanced rawness in his voice when he asked, “Have you been well, my lady?”

She clasped her hands and fiddled with the rings upon her fingers, a tic Faramir knew to mean she was nervous. “Not as well as I would like to be,” she replied. “I suppose I should be fully recovered by now but my darkened moods remain. As do the scars.” 

Faramir knew of what scars she spoke of; the blackened marks on her sword arm from when the blade she used to slay the Witch King of Angmar disintegrated and burned her. They would never fade, but these darkened moods she mentioned worried him. He felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and cup her face, coax her to meet his eyes, and pry from her what he could on the subject, but he hadn’t touched her like that since their time together in the Citadel of Gondor. That had been many months ago, and while his love for her had not faded, he had no way of knowing if she had ever felt the same. 

No, he could not touch her now. 

But this did not stop him from remembering the last time he had. 

* * *

The Shieldmaiden of Rohan was to depart from Minas Tirith with her brother and the surviving Rohirrim at first light. They would have to pick their way across the Pelennor Fields, dotted with the still smoldering pyres of brethren and enemy alike, and then ride home to rebuild that which had been razed. 

But for now, Éowyn sat as still as carved stone in the Citadel gardens, watching the bright, white stars slowly burn their way across a wide inky expanse of spring sky. She should have been resting back in her quarters. Lord knows it would be a long journey home. 

She clutched the young Steward’s mantle ever closer to her breast, thankful he had granted it to her. It was a remarkable thing of dark blue fabric and rich silver embroidery. True, it was embroidery of the White Tree of Gondor, a symbol of a kingdom that was not her own, but she felt at peace with it around her, as if the arms of the man who had gifted it were there to comfort her instead. 

How she wished to know what his arms actually felt like and not just this trace of fantasy.

The young Steward—Faramir son of Denethor—was not the kind of man she had grown up knowing. The men of Rohan were strong as he, yes, and perhaps as battle-worn, but where they were boisterous and stubborn, the Gondorian she had come to know in the House of Healing had a quiet temperament. He possessed a sadness about him that Éowyn had never known in a man. Yet as quiet as he was, he had a tongue from which the wittiest of words fell, a look in his eyes that promised competence, and a smile that transformed his face as the breaking of the sun transforms a rainy day. 

And he harbored affections for her. At least, she believed him to. But after her foolish passes at Aragorn, now King Elessar of Gondor, and wed to the Lady Arwen, she was not eager to test her luck. 

What a ninny she had been! To offer Aragorn that cup, to lay such wide, innocent eyes upon him and ask that he would love her back. It was all very untoward. Even just the memory made her face flush with embarrassment. It was too soon to have her heart broken again, and so she said nothing of affection when she was with the Steward. Not when he had so generously placed the mantle about her shoulders. Not when Mithrandir and the Eagles arrived in Minas Tirith to announce that the Dark Lord Sauron was no more, freeing her from the dread she had harbored for the end of all things. Nor did she dare speak of affection afterward, when, in a fit of what Éowyn suspected was relieved ecstasy, Faramir, with tears in his eyes, had grabbed her face and kissed her upon the wall in the sight of many. 

“My lady?” 

Éowyn was shaken from her reverie and stood to face the newcomer. As if her very visions had called out for their subject, there, cloaked naught but in shadow and his underclothes, stood the Steward. 

“What brings you to the gardens at this hour?” he asked, slowly moving closer. His eyes lit upon the mantle Éowyn so desperately clung to for warmth. “Is my cloak not enough to guard against the chill?” 

Éowyn looked down at herself, shivering and barefoot. She looked absolutely pathetic without her armor. “I think it is that its wearer is simply colder than can be warmed.”

“There is no such thing,” he said kindly and took her trembling hand, the one that did not hang limply in a sling. He pressed her pale fingers between his palms and gently rubbed the feeling back into them. She allowed him to take care of her, a privilege she rarely bestowed upon men outside of her family. They stood in comfortable silence. 

“You leave tomorrow,” he murmured, eyes lowered to where their skin touched. 

Éowyn swallowed, not sure what the right thing to say would be. She settled on a whispered, “yes”, though that too did not seem sufficient. 

“I wanted to apologize to you, my lady. I should not have kissed you on that wall. It was ungentlemanly of me to do so without your permission in front of so many. And the kiss was very…” The Steward was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. His tongue stalled. “It was not a courtly kiss.” 

Indeed, it was not. It had not been a kiss for great halls and the eyes of a crowd. It was a kiss more deserving of locked doors and wandering hands. The desperate unclasping of belt buckles and the rucking up of skirts. Saturated with the keening, fiery ache of passion. 

“There is no need—” Éowyn started, but then stopped herself. She would not sully the Steward’s apology with a refusal of it. “I thank you, my lord. But I know how you must have felt to hear the announcement of victory upon that wall, for I was there and I heard it too. And when I learned of my brother’s survival, in my heart of hearts, I felt the same joy. Your kiss was but an outlet of that happiness in the face of such a victory.” 

She had not thought him particularly handsome when they first met, but to be fair, when they had first met he was still recovering from two arrows to the chest and nearly being burned alive. In the House of Healing, he appeared drawn and pale, his fair hair seemed more straw-like than reddish-gold, his lips had been dry and cracked, and his eyes were haunted with fresh grief and the same fears of looming death that threatened to drown Éowyn whenever she had a quiet moment to herself. Which, during her time in the House of Healing, had been most moments. 

But as the days slowly passed and he began to recover from his ills, she had been startled to realize him exceedingly handsome, what with his broad shoulders and deep-set eyes of pale blue, sloping brow and tapered chin, strong jaw, and the most beautiful of lips. Lips she now found herself quite literally _gazing_ at. 

She steeled herself. The competing voices in her head bidding her both to say the words that were hanging off the tip of her tongue and to swallow them. In the end, the fool in her won out. 

“It was not a bad kiss.” 

His fingers on hers stalled and she managed to glance up at his face before the flush in her own grew too hot. 

“May I hold you, my lady?” he asked gently. 

“You may,” she said, and then he took her into his arms. 

Oh, the fantasies Éowyn had had of being held here against his chest, of feeling his heartbeat press against her own. 

He did care for her, she was sure now. He hadn’t said it, but Éowyn had heard from the dear halfling Merry, who had heard from Pippin, a close friend of the young Steward after swearing an oath to his now late father, that the mantle Faramir had gifted her had been his long-departed mother’s. Surely such a gift would not be bestowed upon one he considered merely a friend. 

But it was this fact that scared her, for she felt her heart opening once more and a love as fresh as pain welled within her. What was to become of them when she left for Rohan and he remained here in Gondor to serve as Steward? Faramir had his oaths to fulfill, and even after the battles were won there were still people who relied on his leadership. He was Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, soon to leave on a campaign to rid Mordor of it’s remaining (albeit dwindling) forces, and King Elessar had announced upon the Steward’s return to Minas Tirith that he was to have Faramir as his hand and counselor. She would not be the one to tear him away from such noble tasks. 

She could not ask him to leave with her, and yet she could not remain here in Gondor. She could not allow her uncle, the fallen Théoden King, to be buried without her there to sing him home to the halls of his forefathers. And what would Éomer do without her? For all the strength and wisdom the Lord of the Riddermark set loose upon the battlefield, the man was hopeless when it came to the subtleties of court. 

So when the young Steward professed his love for her and asked for her hand with such a shy hopefulness in his eyes, she had to refuse him. 

And there, alone once more upon the paths of the Citadel gardens, Éowyn’s heart broke for the second time. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Letter from King Elessar (formerly Aragorn) addressed to** **Éomer King**

To my shield brother and now King of the Rohirrim, I congratulate you on your engagement to the Lady Lothríriel, for I know her to be kind and generous. She will make you a good wife and an even better Queen.

As you know, your lady’s cousin is my Steward and counselor, Faramir, now Prince of Ithilien, whom, as you must recall (for I remember you turning red and wide-eyed when the news reached you) has been involved with your sister. I ask that when he attends your wedding in my stead (for I very much wished to attend and congratulate you in person but alas, my duties keep me here in Minas Tirith) that you do not send him home as sodden as you had after your coronation. He returned from Edoras in very low spirits and I am not one to point fingers (for I know you would point one of your own right back at me) but I suspect it is a sadness of the heart and soul and not of blisters from a long journey. 

From the way he speaks of your sister, I believe him to be in love. Normally, I would not interfere with such things as the personal business of others. Even Arwen has instructed me against sending you this missive for the very fact that I am “telling” on Faramir and must allow him to make with his life what he will without meddling, but I am in need of a Steward who does not actively try to drink himself to death. He is a good man, strong and wise, both on the battlefield and in the war room, but he is a poor bearer of heartbreak. 

I do not claim to know what is hidden within Éowyn’s heart, but I implore upon you to find out, for I would very much like Faramir functioning once more, be that happily wed to your sister or as a bachelor with a clean break. 

Your brother in all but one sense of the word,

Elessar

* * *

Éomer did not respond for many weeks since he was more likely to be seen sparring on the training grounds or gone off somewhere with his new wife than holed up in his study with a quill and inkpot, but eventually, when the weather grew cold and Lothríriel grew busy, he found himself rifling through a stack of letters he had put aside for later, promptly cursing his neglect. To anyone who asked, he would say that he had been engaged and could not pen out a thoughtful response to Aragorn, but in actuality, he had been avoiding the task. For what could he say to such news? He would be civil, since the idea that his sister was desired was not new to him, nor was he angry that the Steward loved her, for who wouldn't? She possessed a wild, golden beauty reminiscent of their mother and the battle tempered warrior’s soul of both their father and uncle alike. He did not know what he would say when he picked up the pen, only that King Elessar was probably impatient for a response. He let the words come. 

* * *

**Letter from Éomer King addressed to King Elessar**

Brother. I received your missive not one day before the festivities and was perhaps most shocked with the fact that you did not heed advice from the Lady Arwen then that your Steward is perhaps smitten with my sister. My wife has told me a great deal about this Faramir son of Denethor, as they grew up together and are quite close. We have been wed but one month, yet I know her counsel to be that of honesty and integrity. 

Furthermore, upon your “meddling” (which I do not think suits men of our status), I kept a close eye upon your Steward as he attended the wedding feast and indeed! I think you are right in your report of his heart, for he could not keep his eyes off of Éowyn the entire night. He did not dance with any ladies of Rohan (which I thought quite rude), nor make a pass at any of the serving girls (which I thought honorable). 

I do not pretend that his eyes upon her do not bother me, for she is my dear sister and the only one besides myself to possess the royal blood of Rohan until Lothríriel bears my children. Perhaps I am too protective, but I have looked after Éowyn ever since our father’s death and our mother’s sickness, and I would be loathe to part with her. Of course, I cannot deny the fact that she is a young maiden who shall one day wed. As I cannot stop the sun from rising, neither can I stop this. 

Be assured, I am no skilled matchmaker, and I will not impress upon my sister that she must choose either to marry your dear Steward or break his heart clean in half. That decision is for her to come to, I refuse to step in. For be it, if she wishes to keep him in a lover’s limbo (though she is not a woman of cruelty) that is her own business. 

Also, as all those I have spoken with know, I possess no subtle tongue and I fear I would anger her over such a conversation. It does not do well to tell Éowyn what to do, but perhaps a nudge is called for.

If your Prince of Ithilien wants Éowyn’s hand, he must earn it from her on his own. If he was a man of lesser importance, I would ask him to be sent to serve under me for a time. Perhaps then he would be given the leniency to either succeed or fail in his endeavors. But alas, I know him needed in Gondor. 

Truth be told, Éowyn has not been happy here. I thought it merely grief over our Uncle’s death, but I fear she may be despairing over something even I, her brother, cannot comfort her on. A change of scenery would do her well, and if it doesn't then it will do _me_ well to have her be sullen somewhere else for a time. I imagine you may think this comment uncaring on my part, but be assured, all I ever do is care for her. And perhaps your suggestion of throwing her into the path of your Steward may allow him to prove his ability to care for her in his own way. 

So yes, I will not interfere with words, but perhaps I can help spur this love (or impending heartbreak) along. 

Expect her arrival in Minas Tirith within the month. I have no doubt you and your house will treat her kindly. And best of luck to the Steward.

From across the Mark,

Éomer 


	3. Chapter 3

Éowyn stood stiffly amongst grave mounds. Her arms were crossed and a thick wool cloak was clasped about her throat to ward off the chill. The soft white petals of  simbelmynë flowers fluttered between the tall grasses below her line of sight for she stared intently up at the night sky as if keeping its counsel. The moon’s pale face hung low like a medallion, casting an eerie glow upon the plains and snow-dusted mountain peaks in the far off distance. For all the peace the view had lent to  Éowyn, the news of her impending departure had soured it. 

Éomer stood above her on the hill, watching her thoughtfully. She had always been strong but more and more each day, Éomer could make out the cracks in her spirit. He came to slowly stand by her side and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“I thought you would be happy for the chance to venture past Rohan’s borders once more. Instead, you look as if I’ve ordered you into a cell. I assure you this is not true. You are free to go, Éowyn.” 

She cast him a sidelong glance. “How else could one possibly react to a banishment? Is granting the freedom to leave not just another way of saying ‘we do not wish you back?’”

“Éowyn —”

“I do not desire to return to Gondor. The memories I buried there are bleak and a chance to resurrect them is a curse, not a blessing. Besides, I wish to stay here by your side!”

“And I would have you until we both grew old and brittle and you wasted your life taking care of a brother who perhaps does not need as much taking care of as you believe.” He said the last part with a small smile, thinking fondly of how his sister, younger by four years, had managed to baby him in their mother’s absence. 

She tried to suppress it, but after he poked her playfully in the ribs, the corners of her mouth perked up as a dying flower would after being watered. “I do not consider my duty towards you a waste,” she muttered as she swatted his hand away. 

“Perhaps not, but I have seen the shadows of this land grow longer and darken in your presence, and it is my duty as your brother to push you into the light while your youth remains and you can fully enjoy what this wide world has to offer.” He did not explicitly mention what exactly he thought the world could offer her since “a chance at happiness” sounded altogether sappy and very unlike him to say. He should not meddle, it was very unbecoming of a king, but still, he could not believe at how sharply Elessar’s note and the report of the lovesick Steward had tugged at him. Perhaps being married had made him a romantic. It seemed to him it should have been the other way around. 

Éowyn noted his evasion and, in a moment of uncharacteristic ignorance, presumed she had received everything the world could possibly offer a woman. She had encountered death, cruelty, and war, and yes, even a deep love, as short as her time with Faramir had proven to be. Seeing him arrive in the Golden Hall not just once, but twice, and upon speaking with him, not recognizing who they were to each other anymore had been a special kind of torture. She wished Faramir had never come, and she wished him to never come again, for if such pain and bitter shame still sprang from within her at the mere thought of him, what more pain would she endure with his next return?

But now it was she who would be returning to him. Her chest tightened at the thought. 

“Why Gondor?”  Éowyn raised a brow. “Yet another realm of men? If you really wanted me to see the world you would send me someplace new. To see the elves of Mirkwood perhaps, or to be lost in the misty mountains. But that is beside the point.  I do not see why I should go away, for if what you said is true, I shall just bring my dreaded darkness upon Gondor as well.”

“Don’t think of this as a going away. Think of this as a… vacation.” 

Éowyn snorted, something that would normally be considered horribly unladylike, but coming from her was endearing. “I do not desire vacations.” 

“Then what do you desire, Éowyn? I would very much like to know. For all I desire is for your happiness and I assure you, unless something changes, you will continue to find shadows upon you here.” 

Éowyn contemplated long and hard on the solidness of a blade in her hands. Violent, twisting winds in her hair. Of rough stubble grazing her chin, and a nose bumping her own in a kiss. How Faramir probably despised her now and how he would have to hide his contempt in front of others. When Éowyn arrived in Gondor, she would be a burden on him, a shameful reminder of his own vulnerability. 

“In all honesty brother, I do not know.” 

“Well,” Éomer turned to walk back up the hill, the moonlight glinting on his long blond hair. “When you are away, I pray you find out.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Faramir was a man of many things, but uncontrollable lust was not one of them. Of course, he had his desires and his vices. Addiction welled in him for other things, drink and solitude being the most prevalent, so when he found himself tucked away in a dark corner of a brothel, a half-naked woman draped across his lap and her soft lips working the curve beneath his jaw, he considered his shame complete. 

Money in exchange for love. What had his life come to? 

Of course, this wasn’t love, this was just going to be some hollow imitation of it. Forced moans and sloppy unfeeling kisses, but he wanted to experience pleasure so _badly_ he could pretend it was real for a time. Perhaps another pint of ale would help him do just that. 

The room the courtesan pulled him into was gaudy, the walls draped with loose red swathes of cloth that floated about in the lazy breeze coming in from the balcony. The air inside was thick with perfume and the cloudy aroma of wax candles. 

Faramir was toyed with and mounted, her body as hot as a sun-baked stone. When it was over, the woman got down on her knees and found his trousers on the floor, rifled through his pockets for payment, and then slipped away lynx-like into the hall. He almost asked her to stay. 

The ale dulled his senses and the endorphins made his head spin in wide, dizzying circles, yet he couldn’t fall asleep. His mind was thrumming with thoughts and memories. The sweat on his chest slowly cooled. 

His brother had been quite the womanizer. It was Boromir that had frequented brothels and seduced milkmaids when they had been younger. Faramir never had such desires beyond what his imaginations could cull. He had been branded the shy one, more prone to avoiding eye contact and blushing than to actually undertake romantic advances. Reading about maidens in books had always been preferable to attempting to talk to real ones. But Boromir was dead now and so Faramir had to experience enough—live enough—for them both. 

He slowly decided to leave. Stumbling home to the Citadel in broad daylight fresh out of a lower ring brothel would shine poorly on Faramir’s reputation, and by proxy, the king. And besides, he had sensed a growing presence. The squeaking of floorboards and shifting shadows beneath the door hinted at unrest, as if someone else was eagerly awaiting a room to open up. Disgust burned through him. 

Faramir wasn’t sure how he managed it but he found his pants, threw on his doublet, and somehow knotted his belt enough that if one squinted it looked as if he had done it sober.

Then, once he was outside and breathing in the fresh air, he turned down the street to go get another drink.


End file.
